


Rose Gold

by Merixcil



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Male Desperation, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Fixation, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Strip Tease, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Bondage, Watersports, piss drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 14:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10992717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: Bruce wakes up tied to a chair in Joker's hideout and matters escalate accordingly





	Rose Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please look over the tags before you start this, it goes to some rather dark places

When he wakes Bruce can barely remember his own name, let alone what he was doing when he was knocked out. He blinks against the cotton wool clouding his mind, raising his head to get the measure of his surroundings.

The room is lit from above by a single bulb, casting weak light across concrete walls and floor stained almost black by damp. It takes Bruce far too long to realise that the world is not keeling at an angle, because he’s been tied to a chair and arms bound tight enough behind his back that he can’t feel his fingers. He doesn’t want to be here, of that much he is sure, and he’s almost certain he could get out of this if he really thought about it. But thinking is hard, and though he tries to focus on the light to kick start his thought processes, the temptation to slip back into the dark and let sleep overwhelm him is profound.

“Hello…” Bruce’s voice comes out slurred. He’s desperately thirsty, which is weird because his bladder is screaming to be emptied. Instinctively, he flinches to close his legs and finds that his thighs have been bound to either side of the chair. The ropes cut into his skin when he tries to move, his legs spread to expose him.

His bladder twitches, full to bursting. Bruce hasn’t wet himself since he was a rookie, but if he can’t break free soon it’s going to happen again whether he wants it to or not.

The sound of a door swinging open comes from behind him. Bruce’s head jerks head up, trying to get a look at the interloper.

He doesn’t have to wait for long to find out. “Darling, are you awake?”

Bruce’s stomach drops at the sound of Joker’s voice. Uncommonly soft but filled with familiar manic glee and vacillating across octaves in the space of a moment. He should have known, no one else would take the trouble of knocking him out and tying him up, only to take their eye off him as he came to. He’s still wearing the cowl for Christ’s sake. Who but the clown is left in Gotham to truly care nothing for The Batman’s secret identity?

“What did you…what?” Bruce starts, but talking is hard.

Joker shushes him, walking over and pressing bony fingers into Bruce's shoulder in a manner that might be intended to comfort. “Here, you must be thirsty.”

He is. He really, really is. Bruce’s throat is so parched that he doesn’t so much as sniff the glass that Joker raises to his lips before opening his mouth and drinking deep.

The glass is half empty when Joker pulls it away. His thirst nowhere near satisfied, Bruce whimpers, feels water splatter down his front. It’s cold, making him jump more than he should do at the feel of liquid hitting the batsuit.

Except he’s not wearing the batsuit. Bruce blinks down at himself and sees bare flesh staring back at him. Everything except for the cowl, the cape and his boxers has been removed. He wants to ask where his clothes are, or how Joker managed to remove so much of his clothing without removing the marks of Batman. He’s acutely aware that his captor is staring at him with unabashed interest. Drinking him in, acquainting himself with all the ways Bruce’s body has changed since the last time he was they were stripped down together.

Not that Joker is in any state of undress, he never is. Funny how that keeps happening.  

Bruce feels heat spreading across his cheeks, blossoming across his chest. He doesn’t often blush with his whole body, but there’s something about standing beneath his nemesis’s critical gaze that humiliates beyond mere embarrassment at having been caught with his pants down.

In a single gulp, Joker finishes the water in the glass. A drop spills down the side of his mouth and Bruce’s eyes follow it to his collar, where it soaks into the dark green fabric and is lost. Joker holds the glass up to eye level, like he’s examining it for impurities, then throws it across the room, where it smashes into shards with a great racket.

“Well,” Joker says, leaning back against the wall, “this is nice.”

“What did you do to me?” Bruce growls, his throat less rough from the water and the cotton wool in his brain starting to disperse.

Joker tips back his head and laughs. There’s nowhere for the sound to go, it lands dead on the concrete walls and Bruce flinches at how loud it sounds. “I didn’t do anything to you Batsy. I mean, I may have given you a little something to keep you down but you knocked yourself out falling off that balcony.”

A flash of memory: fire creeping up a building, a support beam collapsing at just the wrong moment and sending him flying. It’ll come back to him in time. Whatever Joker gave him to keep him sedated must be what’s making him feel so rough because it doesn’t normally take this long for him to bring himself round after a bout of unconsciousness.

“I must say, I’m surprised you stayed down so long.” Joker smiles. The dim lighting makes the scarlet of his lips look almost black, so that his overstretched smile looks like a wound starting to fester at the edges.

“How long was I-“

“A while. Oh I don’t know, darling, you can’t expect me to keep track of things like that.”

They have had half a hundred arguments about proper patient care in the past, and how important it is to stay abreast of how long a person stays asleep for after they’re out cold. It’s pointless to start on that again, Joker never listens. If he did, he would never have sedated Bruce while he was still unconscious.

His displeasure must show on his face. Joker’s shoulders shake with laughter as he waggles a disapproving finger in Bruce’s direction. “Don’t look at me like that! You’re absolutely fine now, aren’t you sweetness?”

“You have me tied to a chair.” Bruce retorts. He means to sound deadpan but speaking is such an effort that he just sounds tired.

Joker nods, “that I do. This is payback though, so you can’t really count it as bad treatment. After that little show you put on the other week, you deserve it.”

It takes a while for him to catch up, sorting through memories of recent Joker encounters to work out what on Earth the clown is talking about. When he finally hits upon it, Bruce’s blood runs cold even as the blush seeps lower down his chest.

He’d known that Joker was going to get him back for that. Even when it had happened, he had known. It hadn’t been the first time that either of them had taken advantage of the other being in a compromising position, but it had been the first time Bruce had been bold enough to be so overt in his taunting.

“You’ve done so much worse to me in the past,” he breathes.

“When?”

“You hacked into my system and set the wallpaper on all my devices to a photo of your genitals.”

Joker rolls his eyes, “c’mon, that’s tame.”

“My but- My _friend_ was the one who booted up the system.” Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to scrub Alfred’s expression that morning from his mind. The butler had come to wake him, shoulders tense and face ashen, and stated in no uncertain terms that if Bruce didn’t fix this mess he would be compelled to start smashing screens.

To be sure, Bruce had kept one copy of the photo. A fact of which he was almost certain Joker was aware. He’d only used it as stimulation while masturbating twice, and was more proud of his self-restraint than he probably should have been.

“Yeah?” Joker’s eyes light up with malicious glee, “and what did your friend make of the crown jewels?”

“You hid a detonator up your anus just so I would have to finger you to get it out,” Bruce ignores him.

“I did no such thing! A body cavity was the safest place for it. Besides,” Joker grins, “you would have gotten round to it eventually.”

“I would not,” Bruce growls, “I don’t want-“

“Oh by you _do_ ,” Joker coos, stealing forward into Bruce’s personal space and running a finger along the line of his jaw, “you really do lambchop. Remember when I sucked you off on that rooftop?”

“You gave me a paralytic and an aphrodisiac before you started.”

“And you loved it,” Joker winks down at him. It would be pointless to deny it. His nemesis sees through Bruce with uncanny clarity.

So Bruce doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t encourage him either. He does his best to stare Joker down, though he suspects the partial nudity and his blushing ruin the effect somewhat.

“Ha!” Joker slaps his thigh, tipping back his head and cackling, “look at that face! I knew you couldn’t hold out on me forever.”

“Shut up,” Bruce retorts, but his heart’s not in it. He’s thinking about a rooftop up in the Narrows, late at night with the trousers of the suit around his ankles. Lying flat on his back, staring up at a smog screened sky with his blood pounding in his ears. Unable to twist, or thrust or take himself into his own hand. Having to trust that as Joker’s lips descended over his leaking cock things would not lead to further violence.

Joker had brought him off three times in quick succession before the paralytics had started to wear off. By the time he was done, Bruce was coming dry and the head of his cock was so over stimulated that the cotton of his underwear had been painful pressed against it all the way back to the batcave. He had sat himself at his computer, blew the photo of The Joker’s crotch up wide enough to fill the screen and ensured the route down from the manor was locked before masturbating his way through another two orgasms.

Bruce is not a sexual being for the most part. Whether because he’s genuinely disinterested or if the sex he has as part of his playboy alter ego is enough to satiate that side of him he never really knows. But when Joker choses to, he has an infuriating ability to awaken a deep seated need in him so alien Bruce has trouble keeping his head through it.

“You don’t want me silent Batsy, trust me. The things I can do with this tongue…” Joker lets that tongue slip from between his lips, lapping lazily at his bottom lip as his eyes slip closed. He lets out a soft groan that’s undoubtedly for show but still stirs something in Bruce’s lower belly. The blush settles over him more completely, spreading warmth that pools in his groin.

He doesn’t want to get hard, but he supposes that’s rather the point. “Joker,” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish that threat.

“Shh Batsy dearest,” Joker breathes, placing a finger against Bruce’s mouth. Bruce wants to suck on it, bite it, run his tongue along the pad and watch Joker’s eyes light up with the same fire he feels now. “Tonight is all about you. And that terribly mean thing you did to me the other night.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bruce lies. Joker’s finger is still pressed to his lips. It would be so easy to pull it into his mouth.

“Then allow me to refresh your memory,” Joker jerks away, and Bruce’s instinct is to follow, to hold him in place by the finger. He moves before he can suppress the urge, and the movement does nothing to ease the pressure from his bladder.

Bruce coughs to disguise the whimper of discomfort he can’t quite hold back when he’s forced to stop himself from letting go right then and there. His thighs burn against the ropes holding them apart, trying to clench.

Whether Joker notices or not is hard to say. Bruce doesn’t think he’s being particularly subtle but the clown doesn’t stop to pass comment on his desperation. “You had me at one of your little hideouts,” he continues, “all tied up, kinda like you are now.”

“I didn’t strip you.” Bruce retorts.

“Well of course darling you’re nowhere near nice enough for that. You though,” Joker’s face looks like it should break from smiling, “you put on quite the show.”

The humiliation Bruce feels at being unable to relieve himself while tied half naked to a chair is only intensified by the creeping arousal that starts sprouting from the back of his mind at the memory. He hadn’t meant to do it, but Joker had been so worked up at being tied down, and he’d had to change his suit anyway. The one he had been wearing at the start of the night had been burned by a new chemical weapon The Joker’s goons had been sporting. Truthfully, Bruce hadn’t realised what he was doing till he looked up, half way through shedding his trousers and realised that his captive’s attention was very much on the bare skin of his thighs. After that it had been easy, he’d just needed to take it slow and voila, instant strip tease.

Then he had pretended to jerk off from behind the cape, just to see Joker’s eyes go wide and his mouth fall open. Later that night he had touched himself, thinking about slipping his cock between those red lips.

Joker had gotten free, of course, but not before Bruce had caught sight of the hard line of his cock, obscene and obvious in suit trousers so tight. He had resisted the urge to take a photo, but it had been a near thing.

And now he’s tied to a chair in a dingy basement, while Joker tries to get his own back. Maybe Bruce is about to get a strip show of his own. He wouldn’t mind so much if that’s all this is. He’s a whole lot more patient than Joker, and the payoff will be just as good whether he gets it immediately or back home once he’s out of here.

“I nearly ripped my cock off jerking it when I was out of there Batsy, let me tell you,” Joker lets out a low groan that turns into a chuckle. He reaches forward to palm himself through his trousers, rolls his hips just a little, and it stirs hard and fast in Bruce. His cock twitches hard enough in his boxers to upset his bladder and then he’s scrambling to hold back the tide once again.

The only glimpse he’s ever gotten of The Joker’s cock in the flesh is that photo. Otherwise, he’s never so much as seen the clown shirtless. It infuriates him, and only makes the prospect of finally getting to peek below the hood that much more exciting.

He’s not that lucky. But this time Joker definitely notices his discomfort, anger clouding his face as he pulls his hand away from his groin, “what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m fine.” Bruce says, in a voice too small to be honest.

“Oh come off it hon, there’s no way anything this softcore gets you that worked up, what’s wrong?”

Bruce searches Joker’s face for some sign that he knows more than he’s letting on, for glee prickling at the corners of his eyes. But there’s nothing, just irritation that this game is not going as planned.

Joker’s big secret is that he loves his plans. Most of his capers are thrown together at the last minute, so that the chaos inherent in them is never an illusion. But when he goes to the trouble of planning something, he considers every possible outcome, and he doesn’t like to see his work upset.

His bladder won’t settle, no matter how he tries to tense against his bindings. Bruce lets out an entirely undignified squeak as despite his best efforts, the front of his boxers grows damp. It’s not a huge jet of piss, not even enough to relieve his discomfort, but it leaves a visible dark spot.

Joker notices, his eyes growing wide. Bruce isn’t sure if he’s going to be disgusted or angry or if he’ll just laugh. There doesn’t seem to be much that grosses the clown out, it seems rather unlikely that non-toxic body fluids are going to be the thing to do it.

Laughter, it turns out, is the only response. It’s not the usual manic cackle that Joker lets out when he discovers one of Batman’s weaknesses. It’s light, almost fond. The irritation in his expression vanishes, replaced with joviality, “if you needed a piss, you should have said. I may have you bound to a chair with the intent to enact sexual vengeance upon you, but I’m not entirely unreasonable.”

“I…” even having wet the front of his underwear already, even with that invitation, it still feels unnecessarily demeaning to have to say it, “I need a piss.” Bruce mumbles. The blush takes hold of him, staining his whole chest bright pink and strengthening his arousal and God he wishes his cock wouldn’t jerk like that. He’s half hard already, and he wants Joker to look away because those eyes, the colour of acid, are doing nothing to curb his excitement.

That’s what happens when the sex you have is straightforward and initiated almost entirely by girls too pretty to ever have to learn to fuck right. You don’t get any variety in your sexual conquests, and you never realise that underneath that good and proper exterior, you have a humiliation kink.

Or maybe it’s just a Joker kink. Bruce tries to picture the up and coming actress he had been sleeping with last week in Joker’s stead, but that doesn’t feel nearly as exciting. He sucks in air, and tries not to focus too hard on his cock.

“There,” Joker coos, “Isn’t that better?”

He moves out of Bruce’s line of sight and returns with an old metal bucket that has definitely seen better days. He sets it down between Bruce’s knees with a triumphant grin.

It’s too far away for Bruce to reach. He realises with a jolt that where he’s started to get hard and his cock is crawling up against his stomach, he’s not going to be able to piss anywhere but up. Even if he was in position to fill the bucket, he’d still have to wet his boxers to do so. With a rush of embarrassment and arousal, it occurs to Bruce that he’s going to have to ask Joker to remove his underwear for him, and guide his dick if he wants to avoid getting a faceful of his own piss.

It’s hard to believe that this wasn’t Joker’s plan all along. Bruce chews over the question, trying to judge how to ask without sounding any more weak and pathetic than he already does. “I can’t reach the bucket from here.”

Joker’s expression is the picture of mock surprise. “Well of course you can’t darling, it’s not for you.”

“What?” Bruce groans, the pressure of his bladder rendering him tactless, “but you said-“

“I said you should have told me if you needed to piss, I never said I’d do anything about it. From the looks of your undies, you’ll have no trouble taking care of that end of things yourself.”

So quick, it’s impossible to follow the movements of his hands, Joker undoes his own fly, fishes his soft cock from out of his trousers and aims it squarely at the bucket. He pisses like a horse, stream hitting the metal sides and clamouring like hail on windows. The smell of urine rises hard and fast, catching in Bruce’s nostrils and making him want to gag.

It’s the least of Bruce’s problems. The sound of running liquid makes it all the harder to hold onto his bladder and he lets out another trickle of piss. He doesn’t dare look down but he can feel it rapidly cooling along his left thigh, the fabric starting to stick to his skin. The longer Joker goes the harder it is to hold back, piss escaping him in dribbles that are never enough to provide any real relief and make his cheeks burn in shame.

As if that weren’t enough, he’s looking right at Joker’s cock. It’s an odd looking thing, unnaturally pale skin making all the veins stand out. Bruce had already known he was uncut, but it’s a very different thing looking at photos of a foreskin stretched around a hard shaft and seeing it soft and bunched up around the head. The sight of it in the flesh feels hallowed, and Bruce is not entirely convinced he doesn’t gasp when he realises what he’s looking at. It makes his blood sing, and swells his erection until he’s almost completely hard.

“See something you like?” Joker grins. He’s still pissing, the soft hissing sound of it rushing into the bucket keeping Bruce at the edge of just letting go and wetting himself. And why doesn’t he? The worst part, surely, is starting, and he’s got that part well under way.

But he can’t. There’s a part of Bruce that will always walk with too straight a spine for that. It would feel too much like giving up to let go because it would be easier. If he thought like that he wouldn’t be Batman.

Joker’s going to tease it out of him anyway, no doubt. Millilitre by humiliating millilitre. Bruce’s cock twitches and he doesn’t clench fast enough to stop a few more droplets of piss seeping out.

After what feels like an age, the stream of piss coming from Joker’s cock comes to an end. He shakes himself off, a few stray drops that hang from the tip fall to join the rest in the bucket. Bruce is caught by a sudden desire to take him into his mouth, to find out what it tastes like. He balks not two seconds later, shocked at himself for so much as thinking it. Fantasies about sucking Joker off are one thing, but that’s a step way too far.

“So,” Joker says, kicking aside the bucket. The piss within sloshes up over the side and the sound is almost as bad for Bruce’s self control as the jet had been. “You appear to have a couple of little problems.”

He laughs at that, reaching round to catch his own sides. Bruce doesn’t see what’s funny, but then again, he rarely does.

Pausing for a moment, Joker reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat to withdraw a tube of lipstick. He makes a great show of applying it, rubbing his lips together and releasing with a loud smack to even out the colour. He’s looking well, or at least, as well as he ever can. His skin is more opaque than it had been the last time they met and his eyes shine so wonderfully green, even in the depleted light. He looks pretty, or handsome, or whatever word he prefers.

Bruce cannot possibly look pretty. He’s far too masculine and right now he must look more pathetic than anything. He tries to flex his hands but they’ve gone completely numb. He should probably say something about that, ask to get his restraints loosened, but the day Joker practices good health and safety conduct will be the day Gotham is engulfed in apocalyptic hellfire.

Joker watches him with an expression of mock puzzlement, eyes raking over Bruce’s body, fixing on the cowl only momentarily before dropping lower. It’s positively shameful to be scrutinised in such a manner, the wet of his boxers accentuating his erection. Bruce wants to scream with frustration when his cock kicks again, excited by the extra attention.

The one time he had wet himself while out on patrol, he had had a very full bladder and he had been surprised. He’d been deeply embarrassed in the wake of it, and the discomfort he felt where it made the suit stick to his skin had slowed him down for the rest of the night. But it hadn’t aroused him, just made him all the more keen to be sure that the incident never came to light.

“I wouldn’t mind helping out, ya know. If you _are_ having problems. You’ve been such a good little rodent after all, and I gotta say, I enjoyed myself on the rooftop.”

“Thought this was supposed to be about punishing me,” Bruce reminds him, trying and failing not to think about the flecks of red lipstick he had cleaned off his cock in the shower that evening, the way Joker had sucked him down like he didn’t even have a gag reflex.

Joker clasps a hand to his chest, feigning astonishment, “I’m sorry darling, are you having a good time? I thought I’d pitched this perfectly so you wouldn’t. At least not until I said so.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Honey, you’re blushing from head to toe and you’ve already soaked your undies enough that I can see everything going on beneath them. You’re a control freak, you hate this.”

Bruce growls in response. It would probably be more intimidating if he were fully clothed and not struggling to retain urine. Joker chuckles back at him, fonder and softer than he should be. He walks forward till the wool of his suit trousers brushes the inside of Bruce’s thighs.

There’s an unreadable expression hiding in the corners of Joker’s ever present smile. Something a little bit warm and a little bit indulgent and a whole lot malicious. Not that Joker doesn’t normally look full to bursting with malicious glee, but it always takes a different shape when he targets it directly at The Batman.

Cold fingers brush across Bruce’s collar bone that slowly tread a path down. They crawl between his pecs, flick over his nipples, count abs. Joker has to lean down to follow them, so that his face is almost perfectly in line with Bruce’s, and they’re close enough that their breaths can mingle.

He stops just above the pubis. Bruce knows what’s coming, bites the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from crying out or telling him to stop or asking for more or whatever nonsense reaction his mind might try to wrestle from his body. It does him little good. Joker presses down, right over Bruce’s overfull bladder. Pissing with an erection is normally so frustratingly difficult that Bruce doesn’t bother to try, but he’s so full, so desperate for that release, that the slightest pressure and the damn breaks.

Bruce pisses in great spurts, soaking his boxers completely round the front and starting to seep through to the seat of his pants. He hears stray drops hit the floor, and despite himself he enjoys the heat of the liquid rapidly cooling against his skin. Joker’s eyes go wide, watching him go. Some splashes land on the sleeve of his suit but he doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps staring like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

Bruce groans low and deep, revelling in the sharp relief of being able to empty his bladder. He feels so exposed, hopelessly lost to the whims of The Joker so that he’s unable to regain control of his own bodily functions until the clown withdraws his hand. Arousal turns to fire in his veins, and his cock strains against his boxers which, once soaked, are a hopeless cover for anything. They’re white, and when Joker pulls back he can see the pink flush of the head quite clearly through the fabric.

He whimpers as the hand is drawn away from his belly. He’s a lot more comfortable than he had been, but he’s a long way from completely emptying his bladder.

Joker whistles, impressed. “You know, I never could work out how to piss with a stiffy. You really went and did that though Batsy. Kudos.”

“There’s a knack to it,” Bruce tries to sound blasé, if only to keep up the illusion of self-control. His voice comes out small and heady, and he could kick himself over how obviously horny he sounds.

“You really do enjoy this, eh?” Joker snickers, “It’s ok. I promise not to tell anyone that everyone’s favourite Big Strong Hero likes sitting in his own filth.”

“It’s not…I don’t have a urine fetish.”

“You _do_ darling, but only when _I’m_ in the room,” Joker drops into a crouch and grabs Bruce’s chin, forcing his head up till they’re looking right at each other, “as long as I’m here, you’ll buy whatever I’m selling.”

The whimper that escapes Bruce is humiliating as it is honest. Because it’s true. He’s had nights where he’s jerked himself off slowly, thinking about Joker fisting his ass, cutting him up during sex, beating him, having him crawl across the floor and beg for all that and more like a dog. He’s come thinking about that smile, the way the mind behind it knows him in ways he will never know himself and wondered that he doesn’t let himself indulge in the real thing more often.

Perhaps more importantly, Bruce has tried imagining the same scenarios with other people. It’s never the same, and no matter how he works his cock he never manages to get off on it. The clown or nothing, or so it would seem.

“That’s my good Bat,” Joker whispers, leaning up to press his lips to Bruce’s momentarily before sinking to his knees.

As expected, Joker is completely unfussed about the presence of piss in his sex life. He takes a moment to breathe in the scent, sniffing obnoxiously loudly and leaning in so close that the tip of his nose brushes along the root of Bruce’s erection. Without pulling the soiled underwear away, he wraps his lips around the base of the cock before him and sucks hard. Bruce can hear the rush of fluid through the fabric as he draws it into his mouth. It’s a disgustingly erotic sensation, to have his nemesis sucking at his cock while trying to swallow down his excess piss in the same motion.

“Fuck me you taste good,” Joker says around a mouthful of giggles. He pulls back just far enough for Bruce to see where his lipstick has been wetted by the piss before diving back in again, mouthing and Bruce’s cock, humming happily as his tongue laps at the piss soaked boxers.

It’s impossible for Bruce to take his eyes off him. Every time The Joker pulls away, he leaves a new lipstick print on the white fabric, making Bruce’s cock look red and raw where it bulges. His sighs quickly turn to groans, and when a tongue traces the bottom of his glans he stops trying to hold back. “J-Joker,”

“I know darling, I know. I told you I had a wicked tongue,” Joker looks up at him, lipstick starting to smudge and his chin damp. Bruce has to swallow an involuntary moan thinking about how that’s his cock, his piss that left the clown looking like that. Better than that, The Joker likes it. The Joker wants to taste all the ugly little parts of the Batman that are also all the ugly little parts of Bruce Wayne, and he wants to use them to make them both feel good.

Curious to see what happens next, Bruce unclenches enough to let another dribble of piss pour from the tip of his cock. The liquid bubbles up through his boxers, and runs rivulets down towards his balls, picking up pigment from the lipstick stains and colouring even more of the fabric pink.

Joker’s eyes go wide and he gasps, leans in to catch the stream at the base of the shaft and follows it back up to the source. One clean stripe up Bruce’s cock. It feels magic, the way the wet cloth sticking to his skin shifts with the movement, and Bruce’s whole body shakes as he moans, waiting for that tongue to make contact with the head of his cock. 

No such luck, not just yet. Bruce’s moan turns into a growl of frustration, “would you just get on with it?”

“Is that begging I hear?”

“No.”

“Good, you’re above such nonsense darling.” Joker says, bringing a hand up to steady himself against Bruce’s thigh, “If you can do that again though, we’ll see what can be arranged.”

Bruce doesn’t even care that he’s pissing on The Joker’s command. He lets a few more drops of piss fly, watches Joker chase them once again, only to stop before he reaches the tip of Bruce’s cock.

“Again,” Joker hisses. It’s too good to pass up.

This time the tongue flicks lightly over his slit, gaping and vulgar and very much visible through the damp cloth. It’s such a soft touch, yet Bruce feels his eyes start to flutter, the breathy little moan he lets out somewhere past the edge of what he would expect from himself. His head tips back, and before he can stop himself he’s relaxing completely, letting his bladder empty.

Pissing with an erection is not exactly easy, most people can’t manage it. It’s a skill Bruce has always had, but he can’t maintain a proper stream. Instead he pisses like he comes, in short sharp bursts that rush through his cock in much the same manner. Like getting dozens of mini orgasms before he reaches the main event.

“Fuck me,” Joker hisses, fingers tightening over Bruce’s thigh.

Bruce just manages to bring his head forward in time to see Joker wrap his lips around the tip of his cock and start sucking like his life depends on it. The way the piss runs through the fabric makes it impossible for him to catch it all, and soon the front of his suit starts to darken with the liquid. He groans deep in his chest, the vibrations not as powerful as if he’d managed to swallow Bruce down like he had on the rooftop, but still just noticeable on his tongue.

Sitting back to breathe for a moment, Joker fixes Bruce with his venomous stare and holds his mouth open, pulling back his tongue to show that it’s full of piss. His jaw snaps shut, and he makes a big show of swallowing, his Adams Apple bobbing obscenely. Then he licks his lips and dives back in, sucking hard and drinking down as much of Bruce’s piss as he can get into his mouth.

It’s sublime, no other word for it. Bruce can feel the blush still reddening his cheeks but the embarrassment that caused it feels far away and unimportant. What’s important is the way Joker’s stretching the fabric of his boxers over the head of his cock to give better access to suck and to drink. What’s important is the profound feeling of relief as he’s finally able to empty his bladder properly. Bruce is so close, he could finish this piss and come just like that. Fuck, if he wasn’t pissing he would have come already, but it’s physically impossible to do both at the same time.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” Joker growls, “You come when I say so, got it?”

Bruce doesn’t formulate a proper reply, just lets out a strangled groan of frustration and arousal. He thinks it gets the point across.

“Got it?” Joker snaps, pulling off Bruce’s dick to deliver a warning bite to his thigh.

Against his better judgement, Bruce agrees, “fine.” He tries to thrust up into Joker’s mouth, vaguely thinking that he can provoke him into gagging if he gets the angle right. The ropes don’t give him much room to manoeuvre though, and it’s not like Joker can’t see the move coming.

“Oh behave,” Joker drawls. Less commanding, hazier. Bruce wonders just how far he’s getting off on this.

With a final push, Bruce empties the last of his piss into Joker’s waiting mouth. The clown keeps sucking, lips wrapped tight around the head as his free hand comes up to fondle Bruce’s balls. He takes long drags, so that the sucking sound echoes around the little basement room, trying to get as much urine possible out of the boxers and into his mouth.

By the time he pulls back, Bruce is about ready to scream. His balls are pulled up tight, just waiting to come, and the tip of his cock has been sucked raw.

Joker sits demure between his legs. He makes for quite the picture, with his lipstick almost entirely lost on Bruce’s underwear, his green shirt stained dark with the piss he couldn’t keep in his mouth and little droplets hanging from his chin. His attention is entirely on Bruce’s cock, eyes blown so that the green of his irises is almost invisible. When his tongue slips out to catch excess piss left on his lips, it looks rather absent minded.

The hand on Bruce’s thigh is still tight, warning him not to try anything. They sit like that, unmoving, till the silence is hell on the ears. It feels like it’s been hours, but Bruce knows it can’t have been longer than thirty seconds. His cock is straining, fighting itself. Desperate to come and trying ever so hard not to.

When Joker speaks it’s so quiet Bruce isn’t quite sure he didn’t imagine it. “Come for me.”

Bruce comes, limbs straining hard against their bindings and a sound so raw it’s animalistic erupting from his throat. He fights to keep his eyes open, to watch his cock twitch and shudder through his orgasm, semen pooling on the fabric covering the head till there’s too much to stay a droplet and it trickles down his shaft and over his balls. Leaving little white lines in amongst the pink stains.

In the silence that follows, Joker’s breathing is hard and fast, turning quickly into quiet laughter. He leans against Bruce’s thigh, uncurling his hand from where it had taken root there. “You are fucking _perfect_ ,” he says, “so fucking perfect. What would I do without you?”

For one thing, he would kill a lot more people, and see more of his plans through to the end. If Bruce knows the first thing about his nemesis though, he knows he’d be bored out of his mind without Batman around. He doesn’t say as much out loud, but then again he doesn’t need to. They both know.

Joker doesn’t kiss him when he stands, just rubs a hand affectionately between the ears of the cowl. Bruce tries not to feel too disappointed, tells himself that he can go home and taste his own piss and it will be just the same as tasting it on the back of the clown’s tongue. It’s a lie, of course. He’ll leave this room and be disgusted with himself, spend a whole lot of time trying to work out what the hell he found so erotic about the whole experience.

What comes next is the hard part. On the rooftop, Joker had taken off after he was done with Bruce who had to wait till he regained use of his arms to move. With the impromptu strip tease, Joker had broken free and seen himself out. Like this though, Bruce’s hands are too numb to enact his own escape, and he has no way of knowing if anyone would ever think to check this basement for him, when he doesn’t even know where this basement is.

If Joker doesn’t let him go, his fate is rather up in the air.

Peering into the bucket that contains his piss, Joker makes a face, “not as much fun as yours.”

“I’m sure.” Bruce sounds as exhausted as he feels. He wishes he were curled up in his bed back at Wayne Manor, ready to sleep an ungodly number of hours. He’ll be fine in a minute, but for now it’s all he wants.

Joker vanishes out of Bruce’s line of sight. After a few minutes spent shuffling around, he returns, dumping what would appear to be the discarded elements of the batsuit a way off. Bruce is honestly surprised he didn’t shred it.

“You should find everything here,” Joker says, nodding towards the pile. Now that the moment has passed he seems somewhat uneasy, like he too has no idea how to end this. There’s an uncomfortable period during which the silence has the audacity to turn awkward, and then he’s off. Dashing behind Bruce and slashing open the ropes at his wrists with one clean movement.

Bruce barely has time to register the sound of the door closing, let alone to run after him. Not that he would run, not in his current state. Batman appearing on the streets, half naked and wearing underwear soiled by piss, cum and lipstick is not an image he’s trying to put out to the public. He hisses as he flexes his hands, feels the blood rush back to his fingers entirely too fast. It doesn’t look like they’ve been done any permanent damage but they have gone very blue. As a result their movements are clumsier than they should be, and it takes a good ten minutes to work out how to untie his feet.

He clambers back into the batsuit, feeling sluggish from the post orgasm haze or the drugs or some combination of the two. Before he turns to go, he stares down the bucket of Joker’s piss sitting in the middle of the floor. He debates taking it with him, but can’t think of a decent justification to do so.

Bruce shrugs, doesn’t think about it. If he really wants to become the proud owner of a lifetime’s supply of Joker urine samples, he’s sure he can talk his nemesis into providing next time. And there will be a next time, despite what he wants to tell himself. What on Earth would they do without each other?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the grossest most self indulgent porn I've ever written lmao. If this kind of thing is your kind of thing, then you might be interested to know that it was largely inspired by [this video](https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph577e5ae72ef5f). (Video is NSFW - the link will take you through to pornhub)
> 
> Comments are love! Come find me on [tumblr](http://jeffersonhairpie.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/chadfuture_)


End file.
